Flesh and Bone (Body Farm 2)

My gloomy reverie was interrupted by the hum of rubber tires on the riverwalk. A brightly clad cyclist pedaled past on a mountain bike. When he reached the sharp switchbacks angling up the bluff, I expected him to dismount; instead, in a display of balance and precision I would not have thought possible on two wheels, he made one hairpin turn after another-at least twenty in all-before topping out near the museum and speeding off. I laughed in amazement and delight and ascended the hill myself, huffing and sweating by the time I zigged and zagged clear to the top. Once there, I wandered the neighborhood-an assortment of galleries, cafés, and inns clustered near the art museum-and ate dinner in the courtyard of a restaurant. By the time I ambled back to the Marriott, my legs were tired, my feet were sore, and I had just enough time to shower and change before meeting Jess in the lobby for our research excursion.

As we pulled away from the hotel, Jess steered me right on Carter Street, then right again on Martin Luther King Boulevard. After maybe a mile, she directed me left onto Central, then right onto McCallie Avenue. I was vaguely familiar with McCallie, as I’d been invited several times to guest-lecture at McCallie School, a prestigious private academy whose graduates included media mogul Ted Turner, Senator Howard Baker, and televangelist Pat Robertson. The prep school, though, was farther to the east, nestled at the base of Missionary Ridge; our destination, a nightclub called Alan Gold’s, was in a flatter, more blue-collar section of town. As we crossed a viaduct over a railroad track and a city park began spooling darkly past on our left, she said, “Okay, slow down, slow down; there it is on the right. Turn onto that side street and park anywhere you can.”

The building was a drab old brick structure, two stories high; at first glance it looked more like an electrical supply company than a trendy nightspot. The only distinguishing feature of the façade fronting McCallie was a line of spherical white lights about fifteen or twenty feet off the ground. As we turned onto the side street, though, things picked up dramatically. A hundred or more cars and trucks were jammed into a patchwork of tiny lots. Dozens of people-singly and in couples of every possible combination of age, gender, ethnicity, and edginess-milled about. Music throbbed intermittently from the side entrance, a door that opened and closed every few seconds to admit or disgorge more patrons. We got lucky-a PT Cruiser backed out of a parking spot just as we approached at an idle. “Somebody must have paired up early,” Jess said. I raised my eyebrows, for what I suspected would not be the only time to night.

Jess paid the ten-dollar cover charge for us, and we entered through a long, narrow hallway, congested not only by the ceaseless ebb and flow of customers, but by the tunnel’s terminus, a small alcove just outside the club’s restrooms, where people hovered and chatted, blocking traffic. From here, a branching pair of hallways let into the club’s main areas, a small back bar and the main bar, fronting the dance floor, which a crowded mezzanine overlooked.

Jess and I had decided to split up and work the room separately; we each had several copies of pictures of the Chattanooga murder victim, as envisioned by a police sketch artist. One version showed him as a normal male, in regular street clothes. The other version showed him in the kinky outfit in which his body had been found.

Jess made for a cluster of young men in biker gear-black leather trimmed with an abundance of zippers, rivets, chains, and skulls. Some of the skulls sported wings, which I found particularly intriguing.

I felt a need to acclimate before interrogating anyone in this crowd, so I eased toward the bar and found an opening. The bartender looked up from the drink he was shaking. “What’ll you have?”

“Coke, please,” I said.

He smiled slightly. “A Coca-Cola, or some coke?”

It took a moment for the distinction to sink in. “Ah,” I said. “Just the legal soft drink, if you would.”

“Certainly, sir.” He smiled again, indulgently, when he handed it to me, waving aside the five-dollar bill I had fished out of my wallet. “Soft drinks are free,” he said. “All you pay for here is the hard stuff.” He winked as he said it. Perhaps, I thought, I should have stuck close to Jess.

I turned around and leaned back against the bar. As I scanned the room and its occupants uneasily, I heard a soft female voice to my left side. “You look like you’re looking for somebody,” she said. “And like you haven’t found him yet.”

I turned and found myself facing a beautiful young black woman. Her skin was the color of strong coffee cut with lots of cream. Her shoulder-length hair had been straightened; it had a bit of wave to it, and where it swept across her forehead, the blue-black was streaked with golden highlights. Her brown eyes were warm and liquid, and her gold evening gown showed an impressive amount of cleavage. It took some willpower not to stare. “Well, I’m not sure who I’m looking for,” I said.

She gave a dramatic sigh. “Oh, honey, ain’t that always the way. I been looking half my life, and I ain’t found my loverboy yet. But we gots to keep lookin’. Don’t you give up, now. You gon’ find him real soon. Maybe even to night, right here.”

I felt my face redden. “I’m not looking for a man…like that,” I said. “I’m looking for somebody who might be able to tell us whether a specific young man was hanging out here a while back. Do you come here a lot?”

“Why yes, I do come here every now and then,” she said, “but most times, I come when I’m in my big brass bed with some big, strong man.” She reached out and gave my left shoulder a squeeze. “Oh my, yay-es,” she said, batting her long lashes at me.

This conversation had clearly spun out of my control. I knew she was making fun of me, but I had to laugh. Actually, she seemed to be making fun of both of us, which is why I was able to laugh. Was she flirting? Probably so. Was I flirting back? Not yet, I decided, but I was strongly considering it. “What specific young man you looking for, sweetheart? Lossa young mens hang out here.”

“This one,” I said, fishing the two portraits from my pocket. “He might have been dressed in men’s clothing, or he might have been wearing women’s clothing and a wig. In drag.”

She looked at me archly. “Darlin’, I know what drag means.”

“Right,” I said. “Anyhow, we’re wondering if anybody here might have seen him.”

She glanced at the pictures, then looked at me and across the room at Jess. “Y’all the police?”

“No,” I said. “She’s a medical examiner; I’m a forensic anthropologist. I teach up at UT-Knoxville.”

“A pro-fessor? Oh my, I do love a man with a great big…brain,” she said. She laughed, a musical sound that started high and cascaded down, like a series of handbells pealing in quick succession. As she did, she laid a hand on my chest momentarily; her nails were long and cobalt blue, with flecks of gold that matched her dress and the highlights in her hair. I caught a whiff of perfume, something floral and citrusy. Not too heavy or sweet; fresh, but also exotic. It suited her, I decided. “Mr. Professor, I am Miss Georgia Youngblood, and I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m Dr. Bill Brockton. Sorry; that sounds stuffy. I’m Bill.” I wanted to be sure I’d understood her enunciation correctly. “Did you say Miss Youngblood? Not Ms.? I’ve spent years learning to put that z on the end for my female students and colleagues.”

“Oh no no no,” she said, “I am most definitely an old-fashioned ‘miss.’ In fact, most of my friends call me Miss Georgia, which I like, because I grew up just over the line, in the Peach State.” She cocked her head, studying my face. “I think I’ll call you Dr. Bill. I don’t usually enjoy receiving doctor bills, but I feel myself inclined to make an exception in your case.”

She talked like a character out of some Tennessee Williams play, but the dramatic flourishes seemed to fit somehow. I wasn’t sure what all she meant by “receiving,” and I didn’t have the nerve to ask, so I waved the pictures to remind her that I’d asked about them. “So how about it, Miss Georgia,” I said, “do you recogniz

e either version of this fellow?”

She frowned. “No, I can’t say as I do,” she said. “Mind you, he’s not the sort of boy who would catch my eye. I prefer my men to have a little more maturity and experience under their belts.” She looked at me suggestively; in response, I tried raising one eyebrow at her-I’d been practicing Jess’s trick, with occasional success. The half-guilty knowledge that Jess was barely twenty feet away, also armed with the sketch artist’s renderings, made it harder to achieve the needed muscle isolation.

“What about this version, where he’s in drag?”

“Honey, I know I ain’t seen that li’l bitch,” she said, “if you’ll ’scuse my French. Look at that cheap-ass Dolly Parton wig. And that S amp;M bustier? Tha’s some kinda white-trash ho getup. Miss Georgia wouldn’t be caught dead in that.”

“Well, he was,” I said. “Somebody murdered him a couple weeks ago, and we’d like to find out who he was and who killed him.”

“I’d like to find out why he wearin’ that trashy getup,” she said. “He probably killed by the fashion police. A crime of fashion in the first degree.” She laughed again, the peals ringing out above the din of the bar. Just then the lights in the place flickered, briefly, and she glanced at her watch, then laid a hand on my forearm. “Baby, you gots to ’scuse me for just a little bit. Don’t you go ’way, though. I want to come back and hear all about your Ph.D. and your arthropology.”

“Anthropology,” I corrected, but she was already headed through a doorway at the end of the bar.

Suddenly the lights flashed again, then dimmed, and the noise level in the room dropped by a good ten decibels. “Ladies and gentlemen,” an amplified voice boomed from speakers in the ceiling, “Alan Gold’s is proud to present Chattanooga’s favorite entertainer, the one and only Miss Georgia Youngblood!” Many of the people in the bar whistled and whooped and clapped as my new friend, microphone in hand, strutted onto a small stage occupying one end of the room. She curtsied deeply, bending over far enough to expose plenty of cleavage-and to incite a fresh round of cheers. As she straightened up, she half hid her face behind one bare shoulder, feigning shyness. The crowd responded again. She clearly knew what they liked, and she clearly liked giving it to them. Then she shushed them, and I heard a recording of violins fade up on the sound system. A spotlight flicked on, causing Miss Georgia’s mocha skin and glossy hair to glow, and then she began to sing. Her voice started out delicate and tentative, then quickly grew powerful and poignant. “Don’t…know…why There’s no sun up in the skyStormy weather/Since my man and I ain’t together,” she sang. Her voice rang with sadness and longing-a tragic version of the bell-pealing laugh she’d let loose only minutes before.

Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed Jess, who had edged through the crowd to me. “Isn’t he great? Most of them just lip-sync, but this one’s really belting it out, isn’t he?”

“He?” I looked at Jess and I saw disbelief, amusement, and pity flash across her face in quick succession. Then the amusement won out over the other expressions.

She leaned close so she could speak softly in my ear. “Oh, Bill. You really didn’t know you were talking to a she-male?”

“A she-male?”

“She-male. Transvestite. Female impersonator. Miss Georgia there has been a local celebrity ever since she burst onto the scene a year or so ago. People drive all the way up from Atlanta to see her.” Jess hoisted an eyebrow at me. “She seemed to be taking quite the shine to you, by the way,” she said. “You must have set your charm-phaser to ‘stun.’ I was about to come over and scratch her eyes out.”

“Oh, stop,” I said. “I was just trying to find out if she’s seen your murder victim.”

“And?”

“Apparently not. She said version A wasn’t the sort of guy she’d notice, and that she had definitely never seen version B’s ‘cheap-ass wig and trashy ho getup,’ if I’m quoting her correctly, on anybody around here. Said he was probably executed by the fashion police. No, sorry: the fashion police,” I corrected myself.

“Miss Georgia does seem to have a good knowledge of the laws of fashion,” Jess said. “She’s a knockout in that gown.” Jess looked down at her own outfit, which consisted of her usual black jeans, topped by an elegant blouse of what I guessed to be blue silk. “Her tits are better than mine, aren’t they? Come on, tell me the truth-I’m a big girl; I can take it.”

I stared at her. Had I had been living in suburbia and the ivory tower far too long? This evening had gotten way too surreal for me.

Up on the stage, Miss Georgia’s torch song was flickering out, her voice getting small again and breaking a bit. “Can’t…go…on/ Everything I had…is gone…” she quavered, sounding as if she meant it from the bottom of a broken heart. “Keeps raining all the time/Keeps raining all of the time.”

The violins faded, and Miss Georgia hung her head and let the microphone drop to her lap. The crowd applauded and cheered wildly. I hesitated, still embarrassed and confused by my stupid mistake. I looked at Jess; as she clapped, she grinned at me and rolled her eyes and shook her head. I found myself grinning back, then laughing out loud at my silliness. Then I found myself clapping so hard my hands hurt.

Miss Georgia performed several more numbers, ranging from a booty-shaking, foot-stomping rendition of “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” to a haunting blues lament. “She cries alone at night too often,” she sang. “He smokes and drinks and don’t come home at all/Only women bleed/Only women bleed/Only women bleed.” Somehow those words seemed to take on an added layer of poignancy, coming from a young black man who envisioned himself, for what ever reason, as a woman. On the inside, at least, he was surely bleeding, too.

I still couldn’t claim to understand why a man would want to dress in drag. But I could now intuit at least some of the pain involved in taking that drastic step. My bewilderment was tempered by compassion. And I could even, at least in Miss Georgia’s case, appreciate the stunning results that a willowy frame, a flair for fashion, and an outsized personality could yield.

At the end of the set, the spotlight switched off and the lights in the bar came back up, though not all the way. The gray noise of a hundred conversations ramped up as well, but also to a more subdued level than before. Something about the songs, and the singer, seemed to soften the tone of the entire bar.

“I’m gonna go work the other side of the room,” said Jess. “If you can get your mind off Miss Georgia for a minute, how about talking to these folks around the bar?” Without waiting for an answer, she threaded the crowd and began at a table in the far corner.

I made my way from patron to patron. I got a lot of odd looks, a few lewd propositions, and one pinch on my butt, which was swiftly followed by one of the lewd propositions. Taking a moment to collect myself after that, I scanned the opposite side of the room. I saw Jess engaged in an animated conversation with none other than Miss Georgia. Jess pointed at Miss Georgia’s chest and then at her own, laughing and shaking her head. Then, as I watched in astonishment, Jess reached up and cupped Miss Georgia’s breasts in her hands, giving them an appraising squeeze and admiring nod. A moment later, Miss Georgia returned the gesture, squeezing Jess’s breasts, then fanning herself dramatically.

I didn’t know whether to be amused or jealous. The truth was, I was both.

I checked my watch. It was 2 A.M.-a good three hours past my usual bedtime. It suddenly felt much later. It suddenly felt too late for me.

CHAPTER 14

THE CHATTANOOGA MEDICAL EXAMINER’S office occupied a small building on Amnicola Highway, several miles northeast of downtown. Unlike the Regional Forensic Center in Knoxville, which was part of UT Medical Center, Jess Carter’s facility was a freestanding structure, a nondescript, discreetly labeled rectangle of concrete block and glass that could have housed anything from a paint store to a software company. Its location always struck me as odd, too: its closest neighbor was the city’s police and fire department training facility, an adjac

ency that possessed a certain logic. Other nearby businesses seemed far more random, though, including a grain elevator, a chemical plant, a lumber company, television station, and trucking firm. On the other hand, I reflected as I turned into the small parking lot, death was no respecter of persons, nor of occupations; seen in that light, this blue-collar setting for the morgue made as much sense as any other.

In both square footage and staff, Jess’s facility was only half the size of Knoxville’s, but-also unlike the Knoxville center-it wasn’t handling cases from surrounding counties. The young murder victim dressed in drag whose body was found in the state forest in neighboring Marion County was an exception. Jess, and the Chattanooga police, had gotten involved because there was evidence to suggest that the victim had been abducted in Chattanooga.